


Lost

by Peoplesing



Series: La chanson française [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Denial, Drunk Sex, M/M, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peoplesing/pseuds/Peoplesing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras wasn't the kind of person that questioned himself. Still, he was feeling so confused right now. He was lost, but he wasn't stranded yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, a part 2. This was surprisingly easy to write, although I would definitely need a beta.
> 
> I got inspired by the song “Lost” by Noir Desir (it's a French song). 
> 
> And I think I'm going to do another part, and that will be it. 
> 
> I hope you'll like it

Their reunion was a disaster, but then again , maybe Enjolras should have expected it. He had sent a text to all of Les Amis to meet him on Tuesday at Musain, like they usually did.

Grantaire never went, and he should have foreseen it. After what happened the other night... After what he said... No, he wouldn't think of it.

He shouldn't have either come. He should have stayed at home, in his bed (a tongue lapping at his upper thigh, a hand grabbing his balls...). But he couldn't sleep lately... Not there. 

Instead, he had decided to hold his meeting, like nothing was wrong, drinking his usual coffee;

Musichetta must have been tipped of about what happened, because it seemed that half of the sugar bowl had been poured into his drink. He grimaced at the outrageous amount of sugar in it (Like Grantaire likes to take it: 5 teaspoon of sugar, 2 of milk to sweeten the deal).

But his friends weren't being cooperative.

Combeferre was sitting next to him, just staring wordlessly. Nothing transpired on his face, but that was even worse. The man knew how to make you feel terribly guilty by doing nothing.

Courfeyrac was whispering something at Feuilly. He had been doing it ever since the beginning of the meeting, not paying attention to their leader.

Eponine was downward glaring at him, her eyebrows frowned. She was clearly angry at him (not that he could blame her), her manicured fingernails rasping against the chair she was casually leaning on. And it was annoying. She must be doing that on purpose, he thought. She and Grantaire had always been close, so it wasn't a surprise that she took the “event” personally.

Jehan was looking sad. It was one of his many talents: looking heart-heartbreakingly sad without even shedding a tear (and yet, he cried a lot, like when he saw that PETA commercial the other day).

Marius and Cosette were texting one another. It was kind of obvious, the almost constant buzzing unnerving the blond as he was trying to make a point.

Bahorel was nursing a hangover. The symptoms were there ( the general moodiness, making him look withdrawn, the rimmed eyes...) but Bahorel, as much as he liked to drink, never did it in the middle of the week (that was more like Grantaire), unless he had some grudge against someone.

Enjolras hoped, but doubted that it wasn't against him.

Bossuet usually took notes during meetings. But today, he hadn't brought his backpack, his pen or even a scrap of paper and was just there, his arms crossed. Next to him, Joly was mirroring his attitude and they kept staring at each other, exchanging tired smiles from time to time. 

Enjolras was seriously torn between continuing his discussion, all by himself (at this point it was more of a monologue), and bumping his head repeatedly against the wooden table, until... Well, there wasn't any point in doing that, right? Apart from gaining a concussion (and he was considering it). Still, the urge was getting stronger by minutes.

And they kept doing their thing, purposely ignoring the blond. Who couldn't deal with it anymore.

“What ?” He finally snapped, looking sharply at the people sitting at the round table.

They all looked back at him, interrupting whatever they were doing (certainly not listening to him, while he was speaking about something capital for the future of their country).

“If you've got something to say, just say it.” 

…

The whole exploded in concerto of yells, remarks and indignations at their “beloved” leader.

“I can't believe the nerves you have...”

“How could you do this to poor R...”

“You can be such a stuck up prick sometimes...”

“You're such an asshole. I can't believe...”

“Eponine!”

“Sometimes I don't get you...”

“You could have some consideration for the human nature, I mean it's not like...”

The bustling eventually fade out.

“Well?” Bossuet interrogated him, his arms still crossed. 

“I... I honestly don't know.”

Cosette let out a noisy sound, surprising everyone (she wasn't the kind to get angry), before she let out: “What do you mean you don't know? Don't tell me you're stupid enough not to know that Grantaire has been in love with you for years?!?”

The concerned man closed his eyes for a bit, feeling a headache already coming. It definitely wasn't a conversation that he wanted to have with them.

“I. I am aware of Grantaire's affection for me. But that... it's complicated.”

Feuilly frowned.

“I don't see how's that complicated. You're either in love with him and are mean to deny the both of you some happiness. Or you're not and that makes you even meaner.”

“So which one is it?” Cosette asked gently, taking a hold of her cappuccino. 

The blond man closed his eyes. Yes, he definitely could feel his head throbbed painfully now.

“I... I don't know.”

Everyone stared silently at him for a while. Until Eponine talked.

“Enjolras, you're such a fucking asshole.” She said, deadpan.

“Eponine!” Half-shouted Marius, shocked at the language of his friend.

“What?” she asked, on the defensive.

“She kind of has a point” Bossuet agreed. 

“In the end” intervened Combeferre, patient, “ Enjolras should figure this out and have a discussion with Grantaire. Alone.”

Combeferre always was and always will be the voice of reason . Even if it wasn't something he wanted to do, he had to do it. He was aware of it.

“Will you do it?” He then asked, focused on him.

Everyone stared at him, expectantly 

In the end, it wasn't like he had a choice.

“Sure. I'll talk to him next time I see him.”

Enjolras walked alone home that day. He took a long shower and got set to bed, even though the earliness of the night. But he couldn't find his rest. He lied wide awake, shifting restlessly. Later on, Marius and Cosette came in, their laughter and hushed words contrasting the precedent silence. But they didn't bother him.

He couldn't settle his mind. He kept remembering that morning where he woke up with a splitting headache and still cranky from the hellish week he had survived from with the person that always managed to infuriate him the most with his lopsided grin and his cynicism. And he felt confused... This wasn't him, or was it?

And then his friends are barged in. He had no time to process, no time to explain as he put on his cold facade again. And from there, the words came out automatically.

“This was a mistake.”

“It should have never happened.”

He sighed and turned back on his stomach again.

Although he wouldn't admit it himself, he could recall most of the night. It had been an extremely frustrating week for him, closed by an utter failure. He had tried to keep open an homeless shelter near his neighborhood, making a very long petition and organizing a protest on Thursday, but still the mayor had valued it too expensive and useless, so it had been shut down.

That night, Grantaire had said something particularly harsh about it: signatures are just words written in ink and the voices of protests get lost in the wind. And it had hurt, partly because it was true. He felt... Useless. So after Bahorel had called him “virgin and pure” because he had refused a drink, he had taken the shot from his hands and drank it whole. He can still remember the shocked faces of Jehan and Feuilly, that didn't expect that from him. And he swallowed another one, and another one after that...

At some point during the night, he got into a discussion with Grantaire. It involved rubber ducks, that was all he could manage to remember.

He felt hot and lightheaded, the outlines of the bar blurry. Sitting at the table, in the dim light, the brown-haired man was looking at him with sparkling eyes, a mischievous grin on his face. He could only see and the way he as leaning towards him (to hear him better? To appreciate the rare moment shared together?).

Suddenly, he was talking about his angelic face, the perfection of his blond hair, the beauty of his features, the fierceness of his eyes (he blushed at that). 

And Enjolras couldn't help himself. He surged forward and kissed him.

From there the story was harder to recall but flashed came gradually back to him. The way he tugged at the drunk's hand to lead him at his, the crazy ratio of his heartbeat when he started kissing him, the surge of arousal when the drunk started sucking at the juncture between his neck and shoulder, the sound of their intertwined and heavy breaths, the ruthless way Grantaire took him, his dick pounding inside of his ass...

He sighed again, this time because of frustration, as he felt his dick growing hard under him. It was going to be a long night...

He knew he had to talk to Grantaire. And as unprepared as he was he was ready to do so, to catch him after a reunion at the Musain where he would hopefully be sober and set things straight. 

But he never went to the next meeting. Or the one after that

Combeferre finally suggested that if Grantaire wouldn't come, then Enjolras should go see him. That sent his brain into a frenzy. What would he say? How did he feel like anyways? He was such a mess...

It was decided that they would go on that afternoon, escorted by Combeferre and Courfeyrac through the shady neighborhood that led to Grantaire's apartment. They kept trying to reassure him, but it didn't exactly work. Deep inside he was still nervous.

They took the stairs ( the elevator was out of service, it had been for a long time) and with some effort reached the 5th floor where the drunk was living. From where he was, he could hear music blaring into the apartment. It was one of those ironic French rock song that was about breaking up. The lyrics were usually funny, but under the circumstances... The guilt resurfaced in his guts.

Grantaire was eventually at the door, pulling it roughly to reveal the visitors. When he found out it was Enjolras, his eyes widen a lot and his grip on the handle tighten, as if he wanted to close it back. 

He looked like shit, the blond realized. He was pale than usual, showing off the dark circles under his eyes and they were bloodshot. He had always been good at keeping himself together, but his hands betrayed him, tensing and trembling on their own. He felt the urge to grab them and comfort him.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre saluted the drunk, that answered back, mumbling. Enjolras just stood there, unable to say or do anything. Courfeyrac nudged him forward and he had no other choice to react.

He cleared his throat once, twice and found the courage to speak.

“Can... Can we talk?”

Grantaire only nodded, looking a little lost and he moved away to allow some room.

Enjolras looked back (not pleadingly, certainly not pleadingly) at his friends who simply shrugged.

“We'll see you later.” Said Courfeyrac, already leaving by the corridor.

“The both of you” Clarified Combeferre, before following his direction. 

Enjolras had no other choice but to close the door, already feeling trapped.

The apartment was usually messy, but today it had reached the point of chaos. He wasn't sure where to step on, the floor being literally covered with clothes, painting material (tubes of paint, canvases, papers filled with doodles, paintbrushes...), bottles of beer and vodka (Grantaire only drank the Russian liquor when he was down, because he called it the shitiest alcohol on Earth), and stuffs that he couldn't clearly identify. The whole room smelled sour and he couldn't even imagine the state of his bedroom.

Grantaire was in the kitchen. From where he stood, he could see red angry marks of fingernails digging on his back, barley hidden by an over-sized t-shirt (the neckline was ruined). He could remember, through the haze of alcohol, having done that.

(His own neck was barley healed, bruises fading to shades of brown and yellow that he had to cover under a woolen scarf)

He coughed, hiding his discomfort and the cynic turned to face him, the counter separating them.

“What do you want, Enjolras?”

“You... You didn't come to the meetings. We... I was worried.”

“Well, sorry for that” he answered bitterly, crossing his arms, “ I was feeling a little under the weather.”

“I can see that.” He let out, examining him up and down

He really couldn't help the haughty comment. Grantaire flinched at that. But he contained himself by clenching his fists and saying calmly:

“So you're here to pity me. I don't need you, oh fearless leader, to tell me how worthless I am.”

“It's about the other night. I just...”

“What, Apollo? He asked as he folded his arms defensively. “We had sex. What else do you want to add about it?”

“Will you stop being a child and act like someone's your age?”

“But it's the truth, isn't it?”

“Grantaire... It's not like that. We have to talk about this.”

“Talk about what? The fact that you only disdain me?” That one hurt. It was true that he didn't always took people's feelings in consideration, but it wasn't to that point, was it? Was it?

“I don't feel like that!” He called out. But the drunk wasn't convinced.

“Stop lying. What else would you think of me?”

“I don't know. And that's exactly why I'm here.”

“You don't know. Are you seriously shitting me right now?”

“It's true. I'm confused Grantaire. I don't...”

“Yeah yeah, you don't know. I got that the first time.”

He had to hold back his anger. If not, things would get messy and the 2 of them fighting would never end well... But it was hard when he didn't want to listen.

“No you don't! I'm not like this. I don't do one night stands.”

“Stop criticizing me. I wasn't..” 

“I'm not criticizing you! I'm just saying...”

“Will you let me finish!” Grantaire roared, his joints whitening significantly. He took a large breath, struggling under the emotions.

“I. You're not just a fuck. Sure I was drunk. But somehow, someway, I knew what I was doing.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“YOU!” He interrupted himself. He looked peculiarly tired, and eyed briefly at a bottle on the counter (one of Cointreau, for a change) before he sighed. His voice a lot more measured when he started talking “Enjolras, are you blind or something? Don't you know I'm in love with you?”

“Well, you shouldn't waste your time on me.”

He hit the counter with force, making the bottle of liquor jump but it didn't fall. When he looked up, his eyes were blaring.

“Dammit Enjolras. You can't choose with who you fall in love with! It's not something you decide!”

Enjolras bit his lips and that stopped the brown-haired man, who had to ask:

“What it it?”

“What is love anyway?” He asked quietly.

And there lied the origin of Enjolras's problem.

Grantaire rose his eyebrows at him, frozen.

“You're serious?”

The blond looked down in shame, his cheeks burning red. This was stupid. But the drunk seemed to think otherwise.

“Hey hey, talk to me.”

He seemed concerned. From where he was, he grabbed Enjolras's hands, touching gently. He genuinely cared, he realized. So he started talking and couldn't stop.

“I don't know what's happening to me. I can't stop thinking about you. I'm constantly missing you and your not so pointless remarks, the terrible smell of booze and cigarettes you carry around, the way you wrinkle your nose when you laugh. It's like sometimes you're talking in my head. And I feel feverish when we're close... I've got this weird feeling in my stomach, like...”

“Butterflies?” The cynic asked quietly.

Suddenly he was way too close. Unless he was the one leaning in?

Enjolras could only nod, speechless.

“That's love, Apollo.”

The feeling manifested itself again, finally having a name and the blond couldn't help the loud exhale. His fingers curled around Grantaire's wrists, reveling into the warmth.

“But if you've never been in love. Does that mean... Have you ever had sex. I mean, before...”

The blond rolled his eyes up in consternation.

“Yes, I've already been fucked by other people. It's just, it has never been... Like that.”

Grantaire smirked, clearly feeling smug about his statement.

“I'm not sure where we're at. I don't want to hurt you or loose you and if you want, we don't have to try to figure this out...”

“Apollo. You already know the answer to that.”

“I. I know. But do you really think I'm worth it?”

“Enjolras...”

“I want to try this. If only you let me.” He concluded seriously.

“We'll try it.” Grantaire promised, with a glint and a promise in his eyes.

That made him smile. Still, he felt the need to precise:

“I can't be myself out there. Do you get that? And when I'm with you... It all gets out. The frustration, the disillusion, myself, really.”

“And what should we do about that?”

The leader hesitated for a moment, before he just shrugged his shoulders. 

“I don't know. I think we've reached a point where we've established the length of my ignorance. We just have to figure this out. Without the others.”

Grantaire laughed at that, lighting up for the first time that day. His nose did curled up when he exulted. And he found that endearing.

It was the cynic that closed the gap, his arms grabbing his shoulders. They kissed over the counter, as Enjolras braced his hands on it and resisting the urge to grimace at the fool taste of alcohol. The pessimist ended up tugging at his lower lip with his teeth, making him whine pleasantly. They finally broke apart and Grantaire had to say it, his thumbs brushing at the small of his back.

“One day it will have to get out. One day it will all blow up.”

“I'm aware of that. But not today.”

**Author's Note:**

> For the “ironic French song”, I was thinking about Seul et Célibataire (2) by Les Fatals Picards


End file.
